


Dreamwalker

by Arcwin, Beta_Jawn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Crack, M/M, POV Third Person, Pre-Hell Dean Winchester, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2019-11-15 03:57:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18066170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcwin/pseuds/Arcwin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beta_Jawn/pseuds/Beta_Jawn
Summary: It all started once Dean gave up his soul for his brother, Sam. Any deal made with the crossroads demons automatically draws attention. Castiel was assigned the first shift, to determine the importance of Dean’s life. He reported back to his superiors that it was a simple soul swap, nothing more. The surveillance ended, and Dean was ignored. In a year, he would die, dragged to hell by the hounds of Lilith.This was the first time Castiel lied.-----------------------------------------------Castiel's POV leading up to Dean going to Hell, and the aftermath + their first meeting. Turns out these two had a connection well before Lazarus Rising! Follows canon (mostly) with a few fix-its. A bit of liberty is taken with how angels and Heaven work.





	1. Lies

**Author's Note:**

> All artwork done by my partner in crime and fangirling, Beta_Jawn!

It all started once Dean gave up his soul for his brother, Sam. Any deal made with the crossroads demons automatically draws attention. Castiel was assigned the first shift, to determine the importance of Dean’s life. He reported back to his superiors that it was a simple soul swap, nothing more. The surveillance ended, and Dean was ignored. In a year, he would die, dragged to hell by the hounds of Lilith.

This was the first time Castiel lied.

Though the shifts ended, he kept watching Dean from heaven, a secret curiosity that he fought to keep hidden from those that would pry. Those that would _judge_. He knew it was wrong, being entranced by this mortal man. There were feelings inside him as he watched the hunter, feelings that left him confused and irritated. So he ignored them as he tried to ignore Dean.

It didn’t work very well.

Curiosity became preoccupation, which quickly morphed into obsession. Castiel was never known as being particularly moderate or patient, often vaulting to extremes in the span of a breath. He spent every moment he wasn’t on duty spying on his mortal charge.

“ _Why?”_ he asked himself, the softest whisper at the end of an exhalation, the barest of hints. The word twirled in front of him, as soft as his own feathers as it wafted away. “ _Why_.”

He pretended to himself that he didn’t know why as he marvelled at the way Dean’s lips drew up at the corners with mischief as he teased Sam. He pretended he didn’t know why as he traced the man’s jawline while he slept with a single, graceful finger. He pretended he didn’t know why as his thoughts hummed their chorus of Dean, _Dean_ , **_Dean_ ** no matter what he was doing.

He pretended, but even _he_ knew it was a lie.

_He knew why._

When the torment was too much, Castiel made up his mind. It came to him as he felt the familiar tingles crawling like tiny spiders up the back of his spine the moment he again laid eyes on his quarry at the end of a long shift. He couldn’t stand this distance, this lack of connection. The intensity of doubt in his ability to maintain such separation for much longer without _something_ , _somehow_ , overwhelmed him. The ache that radiated through his wings was too strong to ignore, and so as he paced his quarters with them flapping in frustration behind him, he developed his plan.

As he would surely be thrown from Heaven for attempting to meet Dean in person, Castiel instead first appeared to Dean in his dreams.

Dream walking is something all angels of the Lord know _how_ to do, though they are strictly forbidden from doing it unless commanded. Only those humans who are chosen to do the Lord’s work are allowed to welcome such creatures into their minds, as the unworthy would quickly burn out their own neurons at the sight and sound of Heaven’s soldiers.

He knew it was a risk, but the small, jealous part of him that wanted Dean only for himself was ready to accept it. He had waited too long, had yearned too much. It was time.

The Winchester boys had just finished their last hunt, slaying an entire coven of witches who were tormenting the other housewives in their gated community, and were on the road again. Sam had just taken over driving the Impala, and Dean shimmied down on his side of the bench, leaning his head against the window.

“Don’t do anythin’ stupid, Sammy,” he said as he shut his eyes.

Cas felt Dean's consciousness ebb away as the Impala continued rumbling down the two lane highway through Nevada, and a gnawing urge swirled inside him. If he were more careful, he could sneak inside the man's dreams and figure out how the mortal had bewitched him. Perhaps increasing his contact with the man would be enough to desensitize him, and he would be free once more. No longer would he spend half of his awareness watching Dean, caring about his safety, wondering how it would feel to be wrapped in his arms.

With a shallow, jittery breath, Castiel shut his eyes and focused, placing all of his intention on Dean’s mind. In a flash, he felt his surroundings shift. His crystal blue eyes opened slowly, vision hazy and unfocused, and he let loose the breath he was holding.

In front of him was Dean, less than a few feet away, standing in line at a grocery store. He was attempting to convince the cashier that she could take sexual favors as payment for some bandages and beer.

“Aw, come on baby, I know you’re picking up what I’m putting down!” Dean murmured, leaning close. Castiel felt his heart rate spike suddenly as the man in front of him licked his lips and quirked his eyebrow in an attempt to seduce the woman. She merely shook her head, mouth sealed, and glanced over at the angel for some kind of help.

As Dean turned to face him, Castiel panicked and withdrew himself, not ready for the man he’d been spying on for the past few weeks to see him. Once out of the man’s head, Cas shook his head and sighed.

“Never again,” he told himself as he watched the man smile in his sleep, clearly having won over the brunette behind the register. “Never.”

This was the second time Castiel lied.

It took less than four days for the angel to rescind his promise to himself, sneaking away from his comrades to again watch the human he was hopelessly obsessed with. Castiel watched Dean as he took the last swig of beer from the bottle and clunked it down next to the motel room bed. Sam was at the table, doing research as usual, and Dean threw him an exasperated glance before scooting down the bed and grabbing the television remote. The moment the infomercial blared to life, Sam jumped and glared at Dean, giving him a frustrated, quizzical look. Dean grinned -- one of those _make Cas’s angelic breath stop in his lungs_ sort of grins -- and squirmed until he was settled comfortably.

The angel smiled to himself and waited. Dean had drank the better part of a 6 pack of beer, so this wouldn’t take long. Within ten minutes, the man was snoring loudly on the bed with an arm thrown over his eyes. Sam reached over and snatched up the remote, clicking the television off and drowning the motel room in silence once again.

Castiel stared at the man, eyes raking over his angular features as he again committed them to memory. Dean’s cheekbone was bruised and a cut ran down from his bottom lip, barely clotted with red-black blood. The fight that day must have been challenging for Dean to get hurt, and Castiel cursed himself for trying to ignore the man. Had he been aware, he would have performed some barely noticeable miracles to keep Dean from harm.

Castiel steeled himself for whatever he might find inside the man's mind and shut his eyes. The transfer into Dean's thoughts was seamless, requiring much less effort than it had the first time.

The reality made Castiel shudder before he pushed it out of his head.

This time, he entered the man's mind before he began to dream, so he stood stiffly in the darkness, listening to Dean's heart as it beat rhythmically, slowly.

_Ba-dump._

_Ba-dump._

_Ba-dump._

It surrounded him, enveloped him like an oversized down comforter, thick and warm. He felt soothed as he swayed to it, relaxing in mere moments with a hand tapping absentmindedly on his thigh in time with Dean's pulse. He felt his grace expand with affection for the man, filling the black void with the faintest of benedictions so as not to overwhelm him. Castiel, in his omniscience, was aware of the small smile that pulled Dean's lips taut, and he smiled back at him. The feeling was heady, leaving the angel drunk with an emotion he dared not name lest he choose to stay in Dean's mind for the rest of eternity, drinking in the sweet wine.

The pair remained like this for some time until Dean fell into a deeper sleep, succumbing to the natural rhythms of the Impala. Castiel was immediately disappointed as the warm, rich recesses of Dean’s mind were filled with a new scene--one of an empty baseball diamond.

Castiel concealed his true form, cautiously lurking as a shadow in the corner of his consciousness, curious as a much younger version of Dean entered the diamond, holding a ball and a mitt. Following him was a dark haired, scruffy man with a round face and soft eyes. The two were joking, teasing each other as they took opposite ends of the infield. The pair began throwing the ball back and forth between them, continuing their jokes and stories.

A pang of regret stabbed Cas in the stomach, making him ill. The feeling overtook him until he was cowering in Dean’s mind, pain coursing through him in a way he’d never felt before. As he considered fleeing, he looked over at the young Dean, who was standing in the middle of the baseball diamond alone. The other man had disappeared, and Dean was biting his bottom lip, fighting against tears. He glanced to his right, and faked a smile at the now-present Sam, who was also a child.

“Let’s go, Sammy,” Dean said in a gruff voice, stomping off the pitcher’s mound towards his brother. The sky was dark with the threat of rain, and Dean abandoned his glove on the mound.

Castiel felt the anguish coursing through the man’s mind and fought against it, gritting his teeth in determination as he got to his feet. Focusing on the warmth he had shared with Dean before, he closed his eyes and allowed his grace to swell, overtaking him and flooding every corner of the hunter’s mind. It soothed every neuron it touched, covering it in a thick layer of light and peace from Castiel. The intense emotions drowned beneath the tidal wave of safety from the angel, subsiding immediately. Releasing the breath he held, Cas opened his eyes.

The scene had vanished, returning to the black void it had been before.

“What’s going on?” he heard Dean ask, the man’s voice booming around him.

Castiel held still, though he felt his core quaking as Dean’s subconscious focused all of its attention on him. He again considered removing himself, fearful that this moment might be the end of Dean Winchester. The angel dampened his presence as much as he could, saddened that he had been found so quickly but proud of the hunter for being hypervigilant even while sleeping. It would serve him well in the next year. Perhaps it might even save him from the hellhounds once the time came.

He shook his head, willing that nasty thought away. He had time to think about that later.

Pressure sat behind his tongue, words threatening to spill out and reveal him, though Castiel was able to rein himself in. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to ask. Most of all, he wanted to ask the man _why_ he was so special. _Why_ he was catching the attention of a heavenly servant, a _warrior_ , and why it was impossible to detox, to withdraw, from him. The more he was enveloped by the presence of the mortal, the more he _craved_ it.

He was addicted to Dean Winchester, and he _didn’t_ _want_ _to_ _be_.

This was the third time Castiel lied.

And, as the cliche goes, third time’s a charm.

Throwing caution and eons of training aside, Castiel drew in a deep breath and spoke. “Fear not, Dean,” he whispered to the quietest parts of the man’s mind, his voice rich and silken like dark chocolate. “You are safe,” he added, sending his grace after his voice to soothe the fear threatening to tremble the hunter’s neurons and cause his synapses to spasm.

There was a pause, and then, “What? ‘S this some kinda witchcraft?”

Castiel smiled, surprised at the way his affection further deepened. “I will not hurt you, Dean,” he explained, fighting the butterflies that tickled the insides of his chest, willing them to subside. He sighed, then shut his eyes. “When you wake, you will remember none of this,” he whispered, though every atom in his being screamed in protest.

Dean’s edges softened, relaxing as he stopped fighting the intrusion in his mind. “Sure,” the hunter replied. “Won’t forget how ya make me feel, though,” he added, his voice toying with the edge of a smirk.

Castiel’s eyes flew open, the shock of the statement enough to knock him out of the dream walking state and back to his quarters in Heaven. The angel blinked rapidly, clearing the haze from his vision. His wings stretched and flapped behind him, stiff after spending too much time frozen in concentration.

Peering down to Earth, he found Dean sitting upright in bed at the motel, a hand coming up to wipe the sweat from his face. His mouth was hanging open in shock, and he glanced down at his lap, eyebrows hiking up his forehead. Pursing his lips, the man grunted and pulled the sheets over his legs, then barked, “Sam!”

The man in the other bed popped up immediately, hand clutched tight around a large hunting knife. He looked at Dean, then immediately scanned the room for signs of attack. “Dean? What’s wrong?” he asked, yanking the blankets off him and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

The elder hunter glanced secretly down at his lap again, then shook his head. “Uh, nothin’.”

“Nothin’? Then what are you doing waking me up like that?”

“I said it’s nothin’, Sammy. Go back to sleep,” Dean snapped, bringing a hand up to rub at the back of his neck.

“Dude, whatever,” Sam replied, throwing Dean a glare and then plopping down onto his bed in annoyance. He rolled away from his brother, shoving the hunting knife back under his pillow and pulling the sheets up around his shoulders. Castiel could just make out the muttered curses from the younger Winchester as he settled back into his bed.

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes, mouthing _drama queen_ in the direction of his brother. As the angel watched him, Dean’s shoulders dropped and he let his head fall back on them, looking up at the ceiling of the motel room. Even in the darkness, Castiel could make out the soft green of the man’s eyes as they stared up in contemplation. This behavior was unexpected and intimidating, making the angel feel vulnerable. _Exposed_. Though he knew the man below him didn’t have the same experience, he felt as though they were staring into each other’s eyes. It clawed at him, trapping him between breaths for what seemed an eternity.

Dean let his eyes slide shut, breaking the otherworldly connection, and collapsed back onto the bed with a small bounce. Castiel gasped, for he had not felt such intensity before. It reminded him of the last time he was in the presence of an archangel, and he shuddered at the memory.

Blinking, he withdrew from his surveillance of the Winchester motel room.

He knew he had to stop before this became _more_. He was barely able to hold back as it was, and he scowled at himself for speaking to Dean at all. What a mistake! He could have easily killed the man. The angel was aware of how his true form and voice affected mortals, and it certainly had the power to make Dean deaf, or burn out his speech and auditory centers completely. The hunter could have been crippled by Castiel’s impulsive, animalistic behavior, and he shamed himself for it.

“And yet, he _lived_ ,” he reminded himself meekly. “And he _understood_.”

There was no doubt in the angel’s mind--Dean Winchester was indeed _different_.

And Castiel, an angel of the Lord, was falling in love with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155469010@N02/32165694727/in/dateposted-public/)   
>    
>  [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155469010@N02/47107549001/in/dateposted-public/)


	2. Sweet Dreams

Every time Castiel watched Dean shut his eyes, his heart ached and his mouth watered. He told himself over and over that _this is the last time_ , and yet he knew it was _always_ a lie. The angel couldn’t keep himself away, breathing deep with resignation as he projected himself into the man’s brain.

At first, Cas kept himself safe in the shadows of Dean’s mind, observing and cataloguing the hunter’s responses to various stimuli in order to understand him better. He told himself it was purely an experiment, a way to figure out exactly _what_ it was about Dean that had him so enraptured. Occasionally, Dean would dream about someone he met on a hunt, and it often ended in the both of them tangled in bedsheets. Castiel was conflicted about these dreams, torn between curiosity and the heady feelings of possession. Though his stomach churned, he reasoned that he might learn something from watching these interactions, and approached them with scientific observation as his goal.

Since nothing seems real in dreams, Castiel assumed it was safe. He assumed Dean wouldn't notice his presence, not again. He was careful, knowing that his slip before was just that, a _slip_. A mistake. Something he could never repeat. It was so risky, entering the hunter’s mind every night, and downright dangerous allowing himself to be heard like that. He _wouldn’t_ be so careless again.

That is, until he had a brilliant idea. Perhaps he could hide behind the masks of Dean’s memories, conjuring up old faces so he could play opposite him without suspicion. This would allow him to be closer to Dean, closer to understanding what drew him to the hunter. As he sat in his quarters, thoughts vaguely aware of Dean and Sam as they argued about a hunt they were on, Castiel smiled. This would work, and he knew it. So he watched, and he waited as the brothers checked into their motel room, a bag of burgers and a six pack in hand. Dean threw his jacket on a chair and fell back onto a bed with an exaggerated flop, groaning from somewhere deep in his soul.

“Gimme,” he demanded, a hand flapping around in the general direction of his brother. Sam rolled his eyes and threw the bag of cheeseburgers at the man, hitting him in the face. “Hey!” he shouted, yanking the bag off his face and popping up to glare at his brother.

Sam was out of sight. The shower turned on, and Dean grumbled to himself and ripped open the bag, scarfing down two cheeseburgers. He rolled himself off the bed and grabbed two beers, popping one of them open and setting the other down on the table next to the bed. The first bottle went down too quickly, so he cracked the second one and felt around in his pocket.

“Hah!” he exclaimed, startling Cas, as he produced two quarters from the front pocket of his jeans and slipped them into the coin slot next to the bed. It roared to life beneath him, rumbling and vibrating as he shimmied his body down into the mattress with a contented groan. His entire body shook with the movement of the bed, and the sounds that came from his mouth were salacious.

Cas watched eagerly, feeling the heat as it crept up the back of his neck and warmed his cheeks. Below him, Dean was outright moaning, squirming around on the bed while it continued buzzing beneath him.

As the fire settled low in his belly, Castiel finally admitted it. He _yearned_ for Dean Winchester. He wanted to be with him, be near him, talk to him and touch him. He wanted to take his chiseled face in his hands and kiss his beautiful, full lips. He wanted to share himself wholly with the man.

He knew it was a sin to crave such things, and he craved them anyway.

The bed slowed, gears clunking as they settled, and Dean sighed heavily. He had an arm thrown over his eyes while the other hung off the side of the bed, holding the near-empty beer bottle by the neck. It didn’t take long before the drink slipped from his unconscious fingers, falling the last few inches to the floor and tipping over. The remaining couple ounces of beer foamed and glugged slowly out onto the rug right as Dean began snoring.

Cas’s knees felt weak and his fingers tingled in excitement, and he smiled as he shut his eyes. This time, he didn’t lie to himself. He knew it wasn’t the last time.

As he opened his eyes, he focused on Sam’s visage, hoping to conjure the man’s face and body in Dean’s dream. He was pleased to find it successful as he sat at a diner across from Dean, eating a plate full of pea shoots and nasturtiums.

“What am I eating?” he asked Dean, staring down at the garden clippings.

“Same shit you always eat, rabbit,” Dean answered without looking up from the newspaper he had on the table. “Don’t know how you got so tall, to be honest.”

“I was created like this,” Cas replied, staring at the man in front of him. His gaze slowly drank in Dean’s face, for this was the first time he had seen him this close while awake.

“Yeah, and maybe it’s Maybelline,” Dean quipped, finally looking up. “What? Got something on my face?” he asked, bringing a hand up to wipe at his mouth, dragging his bottom lip low. The sight made Cas’s breath catch in his lungs, and without thinking he reached across the table to catch Dean’s hand in his own.

“No, there is nothing marring your beauty,” the angel murmured quietly, fingers wrapping around the man’s hand with soft affection. He smiled to himself as he traced the callouses on the man’s palm, imagining all of the automotive repair and manual labor that put them there. He appreciated how hard Dean worked, and loved that even in his dreams Dean’s subconscious knew his palms would be rough. Overcome, Cas leaned forward over the table, his body acting on his basest of wants with no arguments from his brain.

Dean’s eyes widened at the gesture, looking down at his hand and then across the table at Cas with horror. “Uh-uh,” he argued, shaking his head back and forth. “Nope, you’re my _brother_ , Sammy! We don’t do... _this_.” He snatched his hand away and leaned back in his chair. “This has gotta be a dream. Okay, Dean!” the man shouted suddenly, cupping his hands to his mouth and tipping his head back. “Wake up, moron! You’re having the worst ever start to a porno, and it’s with your _brother_!”

Cas stared at Dean, blinking rapidly as he processed what was happening. “Dean,” he said while the man still shouted at himself. “Dean, I’m not Sam, I--”

“If it looks like a moose, talks like a moose, and eats like a moose, then Sammy, I think it’s a moose. You’re not getting in my pants, I ain’t no prom date!” Dean then snatched up his fork and began stabbing himself in the thigh. “Wake up, dammit!” he cursed as he kept poking holes through his jeans, small dots of dark red staining the material.

Horrified, Cas immediately withdrew from Dean’s mind, returning to his quarters where he trembled while looking down on the motel room. The hunter woke up the moment Cas left the dream, eyes popping open and darting all around the room.

“You all right?” Sam asked from the table where he was hunched over a laptop. “You were making some weird noises in your sleep.”

Dean frowned and stared up at the ceiling. “Weird noises?”

Sam stopped typing and looking over at him, nodding. “Yeah, you sounded like you were trying to yell but your mouth couldn’t open.”

The older man hummed to himself, bringing a hand up to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “That was one weird-ass dream,” he commented. “Any beer left? I need one after what I just saw.”

“What’d you see?” Sam asked, handing a beer over to his brother.

“Uh…,” Dean trailed off, a light blush creeping up his cheeks. “It was probably just the burgers and beer. And magic fingers.” He cracked open the bottle and downed nearly half of it in one go, then let out a loud burp.

Sam frowned, disgusted, and shook his head. “Well, just to be safe, you should probably tell me what happened. Dad’s got all sorts of stuff in his journal about dream walkers. It could be something important.”

“I’m tellin’ ya, Sammy, it ain’t important. The magic fingers got into me after a long day of staring at your fugly mug and that’s it. It ain’t no monster,” Dean snapped, finishing the last of his beer bottle and slamming it down onto the side table. He collapsed back onto the bed, rubbing his hands over his face, and groaned.

“Wait...magic fingers? Did you... Did you have a... _wet dream_ about... **_me_**?” The younger Winchester spoke carefully, his face twisting into a scowl as the question left his lips.

Dean dropped his hands from his face and turned to look at his brother, shooting daggers with his eyes. “Shut up, Sam.”

“You _did_ , didn’t you?” Sam laughed, his shoulders shaking as he fought to keep in his giggles. A pillow sailed past him, knocking his empty beer bottle off the table and into the wall with a clank. He raised his hands in defense, not bothering to hide his amusement at his brother’s expense.

“Sam, I’m warning you. Shut your pie hole, **now**!”

Licking his lips, Sam raised an eyebrow and asked, “So, was I the top, or...?”

“I hate you. _I hate you so much_. I’m going back to sleep.” Dean plopped back down and rolled away from his brother. “Good night,” he barked before pulling the covers up over his head.

“Sweet dreams!” Sam called, retrieving his beer bottle from the floor. He looked at his laptop, ready to get back to his research, when he heard a groan from the bed.

“Fuck off,” Dean mumbled, shutting his eyes.

Cas stared down at the duo, making a promise to himself that he would never choose to be Sam in Dean's dreams again. The urge to interact with the man was too strong, overpowering even his basic common sense and forcing him to be cavalier in his endeavors. If--no, _when_ he dream walked again, he would need to conjure a different face from Dean's mind. But how to choose an appropriate one? One that would be an acceptable mask for his affection?

Perhaps he could find an old acquaintance of Dean's, or an old lover. Then he would be free to do as he wished, showing Dean exactly what he'd be getting if the angel had his way and felt courageous enough to violate the orders of heaven. He sighed at the thought, wings twitching excitedly behind him and pulled away from his surveillance of the motel room to get some much needed rest. Dream walking usually took a lot out of him, not to mention the added stress of changing his form and trying to communicate with Dean.

Cas was tired, and so, he slept.

Sleeping for angels restores them, re-energizing their beings with the Holy Spirit. They don't need to do it often, unlike their mortal charges beneath them, who succumb every day to the lull of exhaustion like a battery that's run out. Also unlike humans, angels don't need to dream, and so, they don't.

_Usually_.

This night was different. Cas’ head was filled with images of Dean. Dean driving his car, Dean arguing with Sam, Dean eating burgers, Dean chasing down demons. Dean, _Dean_ , **Dean** , the man whose days were numbered and who he felt impossibly drawn to. It was all Dean, and when Cas woke there was a countdown in his head to the day Dean would die.

_Tick, tick, tick._

The clock ticked on, and the ticking made Cas twitch. He heard it no matter what he did, ticking and ticking like a demon stuck in his mind reminding him over and over that Dean was going to die.

_Tick, tick, tick._

_Dean, Dean, Dean._

_Tick, tick, tick._

_Dead, dead, dead._

“No,” Cas said aloud to the universe. “ **No**. I will not let this happen. I will find a way to stop it.” He watched Dean as he drove the Impala, banging on the steering wheel in time to a Led Zeppelin song, and he smiled. “Dean Winchester will live.”

Behind him, he heard a familiar, silken voice. “Is that so?”

Dismissing the vision below him, Cas sighed and turned around. “Zachariah.”

“You can't save him, you know. We have strict orders to let this happen, Castiel,” his superior condescended, stalking slowly towards him. “Orders from _upstairs_.”

Cas looked down at his feet. “I don't understand. What does it matter if he lives or dies?” he asked, voice soft.

“Castiel, I should ask _you_ the same question. Why _this_ man? You are considering disobeying direct orders from our father for... _what_? **_Him_** _?!”_ Zachariah laughed, bringing up the image of Dean in the Impala again. “This...monkey?”

“Zachariah, they are our father’s creations and we are tasked with loving them more than we even love Him. Do not call him names.” Castiel stood straighter, staring his superior down.

“You are treading thin ice, Castiel,” warned Zachariah, crossing his arms. “Stay away from Dean Winchester. Regardless what our Father may think of them, you are not to go down there, and you know it. You don't want to _fall_ , do you?”

Cas pursed his lips, then shook his head. “Of course not.”

With that, Zachariah was gone.

And Castiel made up his mind.

He wasn't going to waste any more time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am thrilled that Beta_Jawn decided to draw this particular scene. Probably my favorite part of this chapter!  
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155469010@N02/46683120284/in/dateposted-public/)


	3. Hello, Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155469010@N02/46595468545/in/dateposted-public/)

“Hello, Dean.”

It started the same way every time, just two simple words. _Hello, Dean._ They were a benediction, a prayer, a panacea for the angel. They became the two most important words in his vocabulary. He repeated them to himself in Enochian and in English, and then in every language that had ever existed on the face of the planet. He sang them as if they were a psalm, his own heart aching as if they were the most beautiful poetry he’d ever heard.

“Hello, Dean.”

The first time he said it, Dean’s consciousness nearly startled awake. There was no dream in place yet, nothing but the stillness of the man’s quietly resting mind. Cas held his ground, though he was wary of making himself shine brighter for fear of wiping Dean’s neurons, and repeated his greeting.

“Hello, Dean.”

The man, recovered from his shock, said, “Hey. Who’m I talkin’ to?”

Cas paused. He hadn’t considered much beyond his first two words to the man he'd been watching for the past month. But then Zachariah crossed his thoughts, insulting Dean, and he set his teeth. Dean had seen a lot of bizarre things in his life; surely he would be open to the concept of angels. He took a deep breath, sighed, then answered, “I am Castiel, and I am an angel of the Lord, Dean.”

In his sleep, the man frowned. Cas felt the confusion surround him, seeping into his very bones and making his heart race and stomach twist. It was nearly too much, being enveloped by Dean’s feelings and thoughts in this way. He longed for the man to center his consciousness to a tangible form as he did in his dreams, knowing that might make him less overwhelming.

“Well, Cas-ti-el, mind telling me what you’re doing in my _head_ ? I ain’t no prophet,” Dean finally answered. “Definitely not pious enough for _that_ , if you know what I mean,” he added, chuckling to himself.

“You are not a prophet, and I am well aware of your various... _exploits_.. I’ve been watching you for some time,” the angel explained.

“Oh, have you now?” Dean asked, incredulous. “So, what, I don’t even get any privacy in my dreams anymore?” He felt the recoil around him as the weight of his words settled into Dean’s mind, rolling around the man’s shame and fear centers. It made him queasy. Then, out of seemingly nowhere, the atmosphere shifted towards one of amusement. “Seen anything you like?”

Cas felt the blush creep up his cheeks as he remembered his many nights watching the man sleep. While he certainly liked it, he didn’t think Dean would necessarily agree that it was _appropriate_. Changing the subject, he asked, “Would you mind creating a concentrated form to interact with? This is...a bit much,” while turning around in a circle to distract from the discomfort of being wrapped up in Dean's quickly shifting, intense emotions.

“Uh…,” Dean paused. “Mind telling me how I do that?”

“This is... like a dream. Just imagine yourself doing something and your form will appear,” Cas suggested, rubbing his hands over his face. If it didn't stop soon, he'd have to abandon his quest.

Right as he felt his nerves sizzling from too much, _too_ **_much_** _,_ their surroundings filled in, materializing slowly around them as if being painted with watercolors on a clean canvas. Cas recognized the place immediately. They were standing in Bobby’s panic room with the door locked. Dean was across the small space from him, holding a shotgun, and Cas was standing in the middle of a devil’s trap painted on the floor. The angel looked around him, impressed with the level of detail in Dean’s memories for this place, before making eye contact with the man in front of him.

“Much better,” Cas said, stepping out of the devil’s trap.

The sound of the shotgun clanged around the room, echoing off the concrete walls and reverberating in the floor. Frowning, Cas looked down at his chest full of holes, then back up at Dean.

“What _are_ you?” the man asked, eyes wide with horror. He dropped the rock salt shells onto the floor, grabbed another two from the case on the table next to him and loaded up the weapon again. He aimed it at the angel, his feet planted as he stared down the barrels with narrowed eyes.

Castiel took another step forward. “ _I told you_ , Dean. I am an angel of the Lord. I was... _sent..._ after you made the deal with the crossroads demon for Sam’s life,” he explained. “And _that_ ,” he pointed at the gun. “ _That_ isn’t going to work on me.”

“No shit,” Dean snapped, lowering the weapon. He glanced at the table next to him and contemplated the various exorcism tools there, then gazed back over at Cas. “So, _what_ , you’ve been sent to _watch over me_? Like some kinda trenchcoat-wearing guardian angel or something?”

Shifting, Cas shook his head. “Not exactly.”

Dean pursed his lips while he thought. “What does that mean?”

“I _was_ watching you, but now I’m under different orders.”

“Like what, to kill me?” Dean set the gun down and crossed his arms, adopting a _don’t fuck with me_ stance--lips pursed, eyebrows set in a frown, jaw clenched. _Ready_ . “Is _that_ why you've been sneaking into my dreams?”

Cas, horrified, shook his head. “I have no intention of... _excuse me_?” He paused and looked away from the man in front of him as the meaning of Dean’s words clicked into place. “You _noticed_ me?” Cheeks heated, he willed his heart to stop pounding into the backs of his ribs and forced himself to look up and meet Dean’s green-eyed, soft gaze.

Dean smirked, his skin cracking at the corners of his eyes. “Course I did. Used to just have normal dreams, you know…” He waved his hand in the air as he continued, “Strip clubs, Zeppelin concerts, fishing, stuff like that. Then after the deal, things started gettin’ all hinkey. Namely,” he paused, pointing at Cas while clicking his teeth. “ _You_.”

“You... _remember_ me?” If his heart went any faster, Cas was sure he’d have to sit down. This couldn’t be real. There’s no way Dean would be pleased about this. He considered withdrawing now, leaving Dean be and cutting all ties to him. A weight settled in his stomach, twisting this way and that as he tried to force himself to give Dean up. _This was a bad idea_. Zachariah was right.

“How could I forget a pretty face like that?” the man finally said, his left eyebrow quirked. He licked his lips, drawing the bottom one in between his teeth while he blinked.

Lips parted, Cas stared at Dean while the words rolled around in his mind. He’d seen Dean do this before, seen this expression and posture, but he couldn’t believe it was directed at him. It had to be a mistake, and yet...a tiny flame burned in the back of his heart, ever hopeful.

“So, you’re not here to kill me. You’re not watching over me, either. And like we’ve both said, I ain’t no prophet. So _what is it?_ Why does an angel keep showing up in my dreams, hm?” Dean grabbed the nearby chair and flipped it around, plopping down while resting his arms on the back of it.

Fidgeting, Cas stood while his mind raced to come up with a reason. Why _did_ he keep invading the man’s mind? Why was he so entranced with him? He still wasn’t sure what it was about Dean that captured his attention, but he knew what to call the warmth that spread through his body every time he looked down upon him. He knew how to name the tingling in his fingers and the heat on his cheeks. He knew what the prickles up the back of his scalp were.

It was _Love_.

The big L kind, not the simple, general love that his Father had imbued him with for all of humanity. Not the kind shared between friends, or brothers. The Love he felt for Dean was far beyond the reaches of comprehension, beyond the ability of words to describe. There was a phrase that came close for it in Enochian.

_I will always say hello, for you are the reason I greet the day at all._

Cas took a breath, looked Dean in the eye, and opened his mouth. It wouldn’t come out. He sighed. Next time, he told himself.

“I find you _interesting_ , Dean,” he said. “I want to get to know you better.”

Dean stood and stared at Cas as he worked it over in his mind. Tilting his head to the side, he raised a hand to his mouth to rub at his chin. “So, lemme get this straight,” he started, crossing his arms against his chest. “You’re an angel, like an _actual_ angel sent down from Heaven to keep an eye on me because I’m dealin’ with demons, who I’d imagine you don’t like much. Orders changed, but you’re jonesing to keep the connection going. So you’ve been sneaking into my dreams, but it’s clearly not doing it for you anymore, so we’re going full monty now? Just jumping right in?”

“Yes, Dean. That’s...oddly accurate.”

“Hm,” Dean nodded. “Well, this is up there in terms of weird, but it ain’t nearly as bad as those Christmas loving pagan gods that kidnapped Sammy and me. And you’re a heckuva lot better lookin’ than those two creeps. Let’s get a drink.”

It quickly became more than _a_ drink, evolving into several as the night stretched on. They sat together and talked about everything and nothing, Dean recounting tales of hunting and Cas listening intently with a soft smile on his face. Occasionally Dean would ask Cas about being an angel, and Cas would do his best to answer without confusing the man even more.

As morning approached, Cas reluctantly stood, wiping at his mouth with a napkin. “You will be waking soon, Dean,” he said.

Dean slapped his hands down on to his thighs and rubbed at the muscles, nodding as he looked around the dive bar he had dreamt up for them to drink in. “Guess I can’t spend my life dreaming, can I?”

Cas shook his head. They both wished he could, but neither said it aloud.

“Will you visit me again?” Dean asked as he took another swig of his beer.

Biting his bottom lip, Cas glanced down at his shoes. He was immensely uncomfortable, unsure of how to go about this. Angels don’t have to deal with these types of things, having no carnal pleasures or aches to speak of. “If that is what you wish, Dean.”

The man paused, his finger tracing the wood grain on the table. He cleared his throat and nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that, Cas.”

“Tomorrow night, then,” was the reply.

“Tomorrow night.”

* * *

As Cas watched the Winchester brothers, he couldn’t keep the grin off his face. Sam woke up at his usual time, just before dawn, and as he sat at the table in the motel room with coffee from around the corner, he kept looking over at Dean, who was snoring soundly. It was well past the time the hunter usually woke up, his internal clock set to keep him from sleeping longer than a few hours at a time. Perks of the job, Dean would joke whenever Sam questioned him about it, concerned.

The sun rose higher, sending bright rays of light through the blinds of the motel room to fall directly in Dean’s face. He rolled away with a grunt, then brought his hand up to scrub at his face. Under the blankets, he stretched, pointing his toes towards the foot of the bed while he groaned in relief. Cracking one eye open, he glanced over his shoulder at Sam, who pretended he hadn’t been watching the entire time.

“Mornin’ sleeping beauty,” Sam said with a small smile.

Dean groaned again, then squeezed his eyes shut. “What the hell time is it?” he asked, voice thick and gravelly with sleep and disuse.

“Just about 8,” his brother answered after checking his watch.

“In the _morning_?” Dean demanded, surprised. He rolled onto his back and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, sighing. “Fuck. I was having such a good--weird, but _good_ \--dream. I didn’t want to wake up,” he explained before getting sucked into a prolonged yawn. He kicked the blankets off his legs and swung them over the side, scrubbing at his face as he fought to wake up.

“ _Another_ weird dream? Don’t you think that’s a little...strange? Maybe we should call Bobby,” Sam suggested, reaching for his phone. “Wait, you said you _enjoyed_ it this time? I’m gonna just hope that means it wasn’t about me again.”

“No, Sammy, I said it was _good_ , so there’s no way _you_ could have been in it. Just drop it, okay?” Dean argued.

“Still, I think we should call Bobby. Dream walkers can be pretty dangerous, and--”

Dean shook his head, clearing his throat. “Nah, we don’t need to bug Bobby with this. It’s nothing. Let’s get goin’, we gotta make sure we hit that morgue when it opens.”

Cas watched, curious, while Sam stared after his brother as he clunked off to the bathroom with sleep-heavy feet. The younger Winchester shook his head, eyebrows knitted together, and turned to look out the window. When Dean emerged from the bathroom, face still damp from the water he splashed on his cheeks, he threw a nod at Sam and they gathered their badges and guns.

“I'll be right out,” Dean said as Sam opened the motel room door. The moment the door shut, the hunter dropped his head back onto his shoulders, staring up at the ceiling. “Cas,” he whispered. “Look, I don't know if you're real or not but…,” He paused, pressing his lips together. Pulling a sigh from deep in his gut, Dean shook his head and chuckled.

“Tonight,” he finally said with a wink before turning and walking out.

Cas shivered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155469010@N02/46595468555/in/dateposted-public/)  
> 


	4. Time

Time flows differently in Heaven. It feels circular, day chasing night chasing day on the planet below while nothing seems to change upstairs. There isn't a sun, there isn't a moon. No wind, rain, heat, snow--nothing to indicate the passage of time. A century could pass on Earth in the same amount of time it takes for an angel to take a breath.

A moment came when Castiel paused. Something was wrong, _terribly wrong_ , and at first he couldn’t quite place it. There was a tiny part of him that began sounding an alarm, sending shivers down his spine and pulling prickly heat into his cheeks. Heaven around him seemed to pause as well, fading into the blurry shapes and colors of an unfocused landscape as his thoughts raced. It was there, on the tip of his consciousness, teetering between being forgotten entirely and being thrust into awareness. He fought for it, fought to shift it towards the surface, when suddenly it happened.

_He remembered._

He had lost track of time on Earth. He was meant to have another date with Dean, and though it kept humming in his mind with the nervous energy he felt from the tips of his ears to the tips of his wings, he had forgotten to keep an eye on _time_. Cas never paid attention to it before Dean entered his life--it was unimportant before then. So an old habit resurfaced and he went about his duties, excited and ready for his date with Dean.

But now, he remembered. He remembered with every part of him, _but it was too late._

Castiel heard Dean’s shouts as the hellhounds chased him, heard Lilith’s tinkling laugh as she watched from Hell. It sunk to the pit of his stomach, making his legs quiver and his fingers twitch.

**It was too late.**

Dean screamed, and Cas watched from above in horror. He watched as the hellhounds tore into him, ripping his soul to shreds and pulling him piece by piece down to Hell. Cas readied himself, prepared to go fight for the man he _loved_. But then, the light within Dean sputtered and went out.

Dean was **dead**.

Rage, pure and hot, blinding in its intensity filled him, expanding until he felt it sneak past the bounds of his being and **explode**. It echoed throughout Heaven, alerting all of his brothers and sisters to his pain. He knew Zachariah would hear him, would feel it, and it didn’t matter. Nothing, in fact, mattered anymore.

Once the swell of anger crested and ebbed away, Castiel wept.

He had _failed_ **Dean**. He had failed in his quest, failed to keep his love safe and failed to protect him from Lilith. Too distracted, too stuck in his own thoughts to see what was in front of him and act on it, _again_.

“ _Dean_ ,” he groaned as he collapsed to the floor, head bowed. “Dean, I’m _sorry_ ,” he whined, arms wrapped around his chest. Sobs shook him as he felt his heart crack and splinter inside him, a hollow ache that settled low in his core.

He was _broken_.

* * *

If Castiel did know what being in love was, he certainly did not know what to expect from heartbreak. Once the tidal wave of pain stopped ripping through him, once it tore his soul to pieces, he found there was a profound _emptiness_ inside him. It seemed to fill him to bursting while thoroughly draining him, a black hole that would never be satisfied. It wound its way through his veins, sapping his strength and blurring the world around him until he could barely register his own existence.

Following Dean’s death, he just went through the motions, reporting for duty and following orders but only through obligation. The former zeal that he had while performing his role was _gone_ , snuffed out like a candle in a rainstorm. The onslaught inside him was inescapable, blowing past the bounds of his body and infecting everything he did with the melancholy that had invaded his life.

Eventually, he stopped showing up for duty entirely, too despondent to care about the consequences. It didn’t take long before Uriel came by, pounding on the door to his quarters and shouting at him.

“Cas! Open up!”

He’d done enough opening up, and it had cost him. So he ignored the pounding on the door until the pounding stopped and the footsteps left. It was better this way.

Looking down at Sam was tempting at times, something he considered until his gut ached with uncertainty. He was afraid to see the younger Winchester, who would clearly be mourning the loss of his brother even more than some silly dreamwalking angel. Though he lacked the depth of relationship with Sam that he had with Dean, he still felt a connection to the man that would surely make him suffer even more from the pain of his loss. So, he avoided that too, and instead replayed his last date with Dean Winchester.

Dean was so happy at the dive bar, regaling Cas with tales of his ridiculous adventures while hunting. He talked with his hands, the blush from the beer high on his cheeks while he did his best to re-tell the stories as thoroughly as he could. When Cas tried to interrupt him in the beginning of their date, ready to share that he’d watched the entirety of that trip from Heaven, Dean shook his head and kept going. Cas found it had more flavor when Dean told the story, clunking his beer bottle down onto the table for emphasis, and so he didn’t mind. In fact, he not only didn’t mind, but he loved every moment of it nearly as much as he loved the man in front of him telling the stories.

The memory faded, replaced by the sight and sound of Dean being torn to shreds by the hellhounds. Cas clenched his fists in his hair, determined to go back to his date. He wouldn’t think about Dean’s death, he _couldn’t_.

Yet it wouldn’t leave his mind, replaying over and over until he was crying out in _agony_.

 **_“No more,”_ ** he growled to himself, flooded with the first emotion he’d had since _that_ day. A spark flickered to life low in his belly, rekindling his passion and driving him to action. If he couldn’t go back and stop Dean’s death, then he would do everything he could to try to save him from his fate. He heard tales of Hell, and knew that the strong somehow found ways to survive, to remain neutral for centuries, millenia even.

And if Dean hadn’t been _strong enough_ …

If he hadn’t _withstood…_

Then being trapped in Hell with him was better than _this_.

His angel blade slid comfortably home in its sheath within his jacket. Cas smiled.

* * *

Castiel barged into the meeting room for the upper echelon of the angels, wings flapping erratically behind him. There were ten angels altogether, collected around an enormous conference table cut from mahogany wood. He recognized all of them, as each of them had been his direct superiors or had fought with him in the early wars, but he refrained from acknowledging their presence. The was only one angel he wanted to see.

He would not be _ignored_ , not be _dismissed_. The small group fell silent at his entrance, heads turning to stare at him as he stood with his shoulders thrown back and his chest heaving.

“ _Zachariah_ , I will have your attention,” he growled. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.

“Oh, you will, will you?” his superior responded, eyebrows high on his forehead. “And you think you can have it by simply demanding it?” The rest of the angels at the table smirked and chuckled at the joke, giving each other knowing glances.

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “Yes.” In a flash, he was standing behind Zachariah with his angel blade in his hand, the tip pointed at the back of the other angel’s head. “ ** _Now_**.”

Without flinching, Zachariah waved his hand in the air, dismissing everyone else who blinked out of the room. Cas glanced around, eyes darting left and right, knowing what consequences could come of this. But the ache in his chest was too great to ignore. It had been nearly three months on Earth since Dean had gone to Hell. In Hell, it was far longer--nearly thirty years had passed. For Castiel, time felt stagnant, never advancing nor retreating. He could not peer past the iron gates that kept the demons of Hell in and the angels of Heaven out, and not knowing what was happening to Dean drove him to madness.

It was with this madness driving him that he summoned the courage needed to confront Zachariah.

“Tell me how to get him back,” Cas demanded, still holding the angel blade in one hand while the other gripped Zachariah’s shoulder tightly, keeping him in place.

Zachariah shook his head, huffing out a laugh to himself. “ _Get him back_? He went to Hell, Castiel. He isn’t coming back. In fact,” he paused, tipping his head to the side so he could glance up. “At this point, he’s probably been turned into a demon himself. Lilith had her eye on him from the beginning, you know. She was always planning on studding him out.”

Cas shook his head, tightening the grip on Zachariah’s shoulder. “There _must_ be a way. **Tell me** , **Zachariah** ,” he commanded, though the growl in his voice faded quickly, giving way under his desperation and despair. “ _Please_ ,” he added.

“I’m not in the position to do much of anything right now,” his superior commented. The heartbroken angel released him and put his angel blade away as tears welled in his eyes.

Zachariah faced Cas, watching him curiously, then sighed. “You fell in love with him, didn’t you?”

Cas brushed the back of his hand across his face, catching the few tears that had begun streaming down his cheeks, and pursed his lips. “I love _all_ of our father’s creations,” he retorted, though his voice broke partway through.

“Especially this one,” Zachariah commented, shaking his head. “I don't know what to tell you, Castiel. We have strict orders to leave the Winchesters alone.”

Looking up with blurred vision, Cas frowned. “So someone else _is_ watching them,” he said slowly. “We never have orders about mortals unless there's something important happening.”

Fingering the edge of his suit jacket, Zachariah pursed his lips and looked away. “Whatever might be happening or not happening with the Winchester brothers is above your pay grade, Castiel. I suggest you leave it alone. Find some other mortal man to fall in love with. Or, better yet, _don't._ ” He scowled at the angel, then moved towards the door. “I'm warning you. This isn't a fight you want to get in the middle of.”

With that, he left, a confused Castiel in his wake. None it made any sense. Who would care about Dean and Sam in Heaven? Why was Lilith after Dean? He had more questions than answers, which was the complete opposite of what he was looking for when he interrupted the meeting.

Regardless, Dean was in Hell and Zachariah was refusing to help.

There was only one option left.

 _He would rescue Dean himself_ , even if it resulted in incurring the wrath of the archangels, demons, or worse.

 _Even if_ it meant incurring the wrath of his Father.

 _Even if_ it meant he would fall from Grace.

He remembered Dean's face the last time he saw him, winking up at him the rundown motel room, and smiled.

**It was time.**

Taking one last look around Heaven, he focused on how it _felt_ , being in the Holy presence. The way the warmth flooded his body, making his bones ache in a way that was oddly satisfying. He drank it in, let it flow from his head to his toes, slowly flooding every inch of him until he was radiant with Grace. It beamed from him, expanded his presence and made his heart full with the love of his Father. He considered how sad it must make Him, knowing that he was about to lose Castiel to the sins of mortal man. That he was going to lose one of his most faithful servants, most faithful _warriors_ because of the soul of a single human.

But ah, _what a soul._ Radiant, in its own way, filling those around it with hope. Compassionate and kind, a soul that gave to every human on the planet tenfold before giving to himself.

It was a soul worth _falling_ for.

And so, with his wings outstretched, the feathers spread wide like fingers, Castiel flung himself down to Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork for this chapter is on the way! We appreciate all the support and readership, especially as we are new to this fandom. Thank you all :)


	5. Hell

Though he had lived for millennia, had seen the world remade time and again and had fought amongst his brothers and sisters in Holy war after Holy war, there was nothing that could have prepared Castiel for Hell. The moment he flew through the iron gates, his very bones started to burn in his body. Hellfire was a particular feeling, one that started with an itch that he couldn't scratch and finally spread until his entire body felt like it was covered in biting ants. It leaked past his skin right down to his bones, spreading through his veins like a virus. Every breath scorched his throat, and his head throbbed.

He knew it would be terrible, but this pain was beyond anything he expected. One thought repeated itself in his mind as he fought the panic rising in his chest.

“Save Dean.”

He had hardly landed in Hell when he heard grumbles and groans, a wild gnashing of teeth and thrashing of limbs that alerted him to the presence of the first level demons assigned guard duty. Drawing his angel blade, he focused on the Grace flooding his body and pushed away any doubt he had about his ability to save his love. He would do it, or he would die, and for some reason, this fact only brought him peace.

The monsters in front of him gained ground, their frenzied yelps and growls enough to make any man tremble.

But they were facing no _man_.

And they didn't stand a chance.

Had there been anyone to witness it, there would have been tales told of Castiel’s fury as he destroyed the demons sent to stop him from advancing through Hell. Hellfire flashed on the metallic shine of the angel blade while black demon blood spattered all over his trench coat. The deeper he descended, the worse the chaos was as more and more demons and creatures of Hell swarmed him. He fought and he fought, all the while searching for the mortal soul that had brought him there in the first place. Yet, there was no sign of Dean, even as the years passed. Even as Cas drove further into the depths of Hell, fighting past the legions that stood to face him.

He fought, and he searched, but after two decades, he was exhausted and weak.

With each breath, Castiel felt his Grace diminish as the evil, torturous disease of Hell took its toll on him. It bound itself to his body, wrapping around him like snakes that were squeezing all semblance of Heaven from his soul. He could feel it leeching from him, sucking out his holiness until he started to shake. It began in his core, a quiver that caused his abs to twitch. The longer he stayed in Hell, slaying demon after demon and advancing to the depths of Lucifer’s dominion, the worse the shaking became until he forgot what being still felt like.

Another decade passed. It had been thirty years in Hell, and Castiel spent every second fighting seizures while his Grace continued to dwindle. The monsters that faced him knew he was weak, and they exploited every opportunity they had to take advantage of him. A particularly nasty one was able to get close enough that it grabbed at his trench coat and pulled him close, baring its teeth in his face while he quaked in its arms. He considered giving in, this time. Considered how easy it would be to just _lose_.

Dean would never know. No one would. He could just give in, let this demon take his angel blade and slide it home between his ribs. He wouldn’t be in pain anymore, wouldn’t have to fight to keep his feet under him while his vision spun and his body threatened to collapse at any minute. He wouldn’t have to fight the shaking, the seizing, as he lost his Grace.

It would be over.

For _him_.

But _not_ for Dean.

Where he gathered enough strength to fight back is unknown. All he knew was that he found it, somewhere inside him. He again found the intensity that made him fling himself from Heaven, found the burning that drove him through thousands of demons. Castiel grabbed at the demon snarling in his face and lifted it above his head before snapping it soundly in half. There was a sickening crunch as the body crumpled at his feet. He stepped over it, forcing the shaking inside him to stop, and looked ahead.

There was still a battle to be fought. And so, he fought on the last threads of Grace that his Father had to spare. He fought on, knowing that time was running out. Dean’s soul might already be lost. Though he knew this was a possibility, there was something inside him that craved answers. He had to try, even if it meant he had already failed.

As he entered the final levels of Hell, a sense of unease settled low in his stomach. Perhaps he really was too late, and Dean had given up entirely. He hadn’t considered the idea that Dean may have become a full-blooded demon once the torture started, and that he might have already passed the man by. It was certainly possible, and in his weak, doubting state, Castiel started to believe it might be true. He had spent so much time searching, and found no evidence of the man he loved. Lucifer may have acquired the ultimate prize--a Winchester. All because Dean couldn’t bear to live his life without his brother, and Cas lost track of time.

Cas was angry, his patience eaten away by the countless swarms of demons he had been fighting through. How could his Father be so cruel? He had nearly made it all the way to Lucifer, and Dean was nowhere in sight. It was a penance, a price to pay for his disloyalty and sin. God was punishing his insolence.

Shaking his head, he dispatched the last monster attempting to claw at his face, and sighed.

He had lost. He looked out along the landscape around him, full of craters and fire, and prepared himself for death, ready to give in and be relieved of his suffering. It was time.

In the distance, there was movement that he hadn’t detected before. The flash of a blade in the shadow, and the muffled sounds of a gurgle and groan.

 _There_ , amongst the last circle of demons before Lucifer and Lilith’s chambers.

**_There._ **

Dean’s presence was there. He felt it, knew the man’s soul like he knew his own. It was magnetic, pulling him closer even as he feared what he might see.

It had been _forty_ years.

The ranks of demons surrounding the Winchester man fell away with ease as Castiel approached, his heart swollen with emotion at the thought of seeing _him_ again. As the last monster crumpled to the ground with a groan, Dean looked up from what he was doing, a barbed knife in his hand. His once green eyes were dark, nearly black, and he wore a wicked grin. Cas dropped his own blade to the ground, for if Dean was already lost, he would not put up a fight. Not anymore.

Dean cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes as he looked the angel up and down. The grin on his face changed, then, fading to a small smile.

“Cas?”

“Hello, Dean.”

The knife fell to the ground between them as the man surged forward, pulling Cas into his arms. One hand slid up to Cas’ hair, possessive, while the other was a vice grip around his waist. At first, Cas was tense, stiff, unsure. But then, he remembered what it was like to be loved, and he let it all go. Let go of the pain, let go of the fear and the rage. He let go of everything that had held him together and allowed the knot in his stomach to loosen, to unwind.

Tears flowed freely from his eyes as he sighed in Dean’s arms. The pain in his body from the decades of fighting overwhelmed him, threatening to unravel what tiny threads of strength he had left.

“I thought I lost you,” he mumbled into the man’s shoulder.

“Thought you forgot about me,” was the reply, and Cas’ heart shuddered in his chest.

He shook his head, gripping the man tighter. “Never,” he promised. “I would never forget about you, Dean.”

Dean pulled away, eyes soft and tired, and cleared his throat. “So what's an angel like you doin’ in a place like this?”

Cas frowned. Did he not understand? “I'm here to save you, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, shaking his head and smiling. “Yeah, Cas. I know.”

Around them, the snarls and snaps of Lucifer’s minions penetrated the fiery air, reminding them of the battle that still waged. Dean knelt down and picked up the angel blade, then placed it in Cas’ outstretched hand. He wrapped his own hands around it, looking Cas square in the eye, and nodded once.

“Ready?” he asked, barbed knife in his hand and a murderous smirk on his lips.

Forgetting his exhaustion in the presence of his love, Cas faced the advancing demons and took a deep breath. “Ready.”

Across the swarm of demons stood a single figure, shrouded in shadow and ensconced by enormous black wings. It growled, a low rumbling noise that made the ground tremble and shake, and pointed at the pair with a single long-clawed, crooked finger. When it spoke, their ears were filled with rasping and crackling that inserted itself into their heads and made them dizzy and disoriented. Hell tilted around them as still more demons clawed their way to the pair, and above the din Cas heard a sentence that enraged him beyond anything he’d ever felt before.

**“Dean is mine, Castiel.”**

Fire flew through the angel’s body as he stood his ground, staring at the figure. Though he barely had any Grace to spare, he closed his eyes and focused. Beside him, Dean fought valiantly, slashing at the demons that threatened to overtake him at any moment, but it was clear they were outnumbered. Castiel reached out and found Dean’s arm, pulling him from the fray to his chest. He wrapped his other arm around the man and opened his eyes, feeling power surge through his body.

 **“No, brother. He’s** ** _mine_** **,”** he shouted. Tipping his head down, he whispered into Dean’s ear, “Shut your eyes, Dean!” as his wings emerged from his back, sending blinding light throughout all of Hell. The demons around them hissed and screeched, shrinking back as the last remnants of Castiel’s Grace burned them to ash. His wings grew larger and larger, thrashing this way and that as the angel incited chaos amongst the minions of Hell. Beneath them, the ground shook, an earthquake that ripped terrible scars into the landscape and opened rifts to the unknown. In his arms, Dean shrank against him, shuddering while tears streamed down his cheeks. Whether they were in fear or relief, Castiel didn’t know, and now was not the time to find out.

He swept his wings in one last circle around them and looked out over the havoc at his brother, still tucked into the shadows and seething with rage.

Then, they flew.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll try to keep a regular posting schedule, however my artist and I are real humans with lives that definitely make it challenging at times! We will do our best. Hope you're enjoying it so far!! :D


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